Just give me a reason
by Docnerd89
Summary: It was one of those nights where it was so quiet, that you could hear each others breathing. You could pretend to be asleep when Kate was sneaking touches to your back and whispering, checking to see if you're awake. If you've done it really well, then she'd believe you, and she'd whisper that she loves you before sneaking out. One shot.


Right from the start  
You were a thief  
You stole my heart  
And I your willing victim  
I let you see the parts of me  
That weren't all that pretty  
And with every touch you fixed them

Now you've been talking in your sleep, oh, oh  
Things you never say to me, oh, oh  
Tell me that you've had enough  
Of our love, our love

It was one of those nights - a quiet night. A quiet night can have many different meanings. It depends. It can be lonely and depressing, to be surrounded by nothing but darkness and if you're lucky, maybe the sound of crickets to keep you company. Maybe that sound can drown out your sound. The noises, those voices inside your head that you want to get rid of. No voice is more sinister than your own when you're easily influenced by the darkness, letting it creep in where it doesn't belong.

Then again, such a night can be beautiful. It can be one of those nights where you get to hold the person you love in your arms, and sway to no tune, your own tune, and the only sound you hear is your breath, and their breath and if you're really lucky, you can hear their heart beating, because you can hear yours.

Or it can be one of those nights, where your mind is completely blank. You don't know what to think, and it's sapping you of your energy to try. So you've given up, because that's easier. The quiet, quiet night. It was not one of those nights. Because when it came to Kate Beckett, Castle couldn't give up. Nothing was ever easy with them. And it took more energy to try not to think of her.

He was lying in his bed, on his side. The whole bed didn't feel like his alone anymore. It hadn't for a long time now. At least he couldn't and didn't want to remember a time when it felt like his alone. But right now, he was alone. Her side empty, taunting him because it wasn't made. It wasn't made 'cause she had been in it up until not too long ago. She was gone now, without making the bed because he was still in it. And he was still in it because it was freaking absurd o'clock at night. She hadn't gone far, though. Her wallet sat on the bedside table, as did her phone. She wasn't here, but she was here, and his tired brain was trying to read into that. And absurdly, at absurd o'clock at night, he wasn't freaking out – not too much – because her side of the bed was mussed up, the sheets rumpled, and still slightly warm.

He thought that she was probably outside, looking through the window, into the darkness beyond. In New York city, even in the night, there were lights. And he figured that her beautiful mind (which she reluctantly agrees works the same as his sometimes) would be reading deeper into that. _Subtext, Kate. Look for it, and it's there. The universe is on our side. Always has been._

He thinks it always has been. It had to be, right? It all seems to fit so damn well. How else could they explain _them_? When they first met, if she's to be believed, she despised him. Of course, she isn't to be believed about that; not when she blushes when she says it, but that isn't the point. She says that he annoyed her. And that's not the same as despising him, but it is true. He annoyed her. And he accepts that because frankly, he was intentionally trying to annoy her. From the very beginning of their partnership (and he's think of it as a partnership from the start because really, it's absurd o'clock and thinking of it as 'that thing where he pretended to shadow her just for his books and she pretended to allow him just because she was forced to' will tug at his cerebral cortex too much) they fit. It doesn't make a lot of sense. They were like pieces from two different puzzle sets. How that turned into them being perfectly in sync all the time, and completing each other's sentences, and depending on each other for better and definitely when it was worse…He doesn't know how that transition happened. It wasn't effortless. Not at all! God! If anything, it took a hell lot of effort to not screw it up.

He put in a lot of effort into not screwing it up, and fix it when he did screw it up, (let's face it; it was mostly him doing the screwing. Heh) because she mattered. She counted. She made him feel like he counted. Though unwilling to share her heart, he secretly thought of her as hypocritical in that sense because she had stolen his – when he wasn't looking, which is saying something because when it came to her, he was always looking.

So okay, she didn't steal his heart. More like he snuck it into her purse, like that one time when he snuck a random picture he'd taken of her and drew mustaches and spectacles on it. The eye roll and that thing her lips did that looked suspiciously like a smile; it was worth it.

It was. Worth it, he thinks. Because she kept that stupid photo; and she kept his heart. Even if she ignored it completely, somehow she protected it. Even when, back then, he wasn't yet trying to be the guy she deserved (no; that started later), she still kept him.

It brought a smile to Castle's face, thinking about those times. He let his hand glide over her side of the sheets that had soaked in her warmth. Sometimes he forgot about those times, where she gave him the benefit of the doubt. Where she chose to ignore the jackass and unwittingly fell more in – in sync with the wiseass. But not now, he didn't forget it now. He remembered all of it vividly. Because it was one of those quiet nights.

It was one of those nights where it was so quiet, that you could hear each other's breathing. You could pretend to be asleep when Kate was sneaking touches to your back and whispering, checking to see if you're awake. If you've done it really well, then she'd believe you, and she'd whisper that she loves you before sneaking out (and you're not sure, but it feels like she doesn't want to. She doesn't want to sneak out. And she really doesn't have the option of wanting to love you. She just does. Love you.)

On a quiet night, at absurd o'clock, when his mind was thinking absurd thoughts, his face held an absurd smile while his hand traced her heat besides him and everything was great. It would be great. Because she loves him and she told him (that he was asleep, does not derail his logic.)

I'm sorry I don't understand  
Where all of this is coming from  
I thought that we were fine  
(Oh, we had everything)  
Your head is running wild again  
My dear we still have everythin'  
And it's all in your mind  
(Yeah, but this is happenin')

He turned so he was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. He was not entirely sure if he should follow her. If it was one of those times where she would need reassurances, or she'd need to be left alone. Where she'd want space, or she'd want so little space that they may seem inseparable. He wasn't sure, because she was giving of this particular vibe. He'd come to recognize this vibe, over the years he'd been with her. It isn't the angry vibe. He knows what to do if it is.

When it's the angry vibe, his brain calculates a perfectly logical solution of giving her space (a.k.a duck and run, Castle. Get the hell out of there.) and he chooses to ignore it completely in preference of further annoying her into laughter. It sounds ridiculous, but it's worked too damn many times to _be_ ridiculous. Or well, it is ridiculous; it's just also really effective. It falls in his list of 'effective Kate mood management strategies'. There's a whole freaking decision tree in his head.

Nope. On this night she was giving the vibe where it seemed like she didn't know what she was supposed to feel. She didn't know if she's mad, or sad, or irritated, or happy, or pretending to be happy. And that really doesn't help him, because if _she_ doesn't know what to do, how is _he_ supposed to know what to do? He doesn't even know what to do when it's flashing like a Neon sign in front of his eyes, because what usually works, may not usually work with Kate. She's like a .. like a .. like a bomb! (Yeah, she's da bomb) She's like one of those (it's now 'one of those' because as fate had to have it, he has now defused two bombs) bombs that he defused. Where in the former one, he just prayed to the higher powers and yanked all the wires out, and in the next one, he prayed to the higher powers (who by now are on his mental speed dial), played the fastest ever game of Eeny, meeny, miny, moe; and typed in the code "Billy" (because as Esposito pointed out, which mother would call their son Willy?). Yup, she was like those bombs, and he was the bomb buddy, and bomb terminator. This was a terrible metaphor.

What to do? What to do.

That was their dilemma. And the dilemma is that it was both their dilemma. He knew that she was wondering what to do, and he was too. He was wondering how to approach her, or how not to.

You've been havin' real bad dreams, oh, oh  
You used to lie so close to me, oh, oh  
There's nothing more than empty sheets  
Between our love, our love  
Oh, our love, our love

He was still thinking about what to do. It had been an hour and she was still out there, he was still in here. The bed wasn't as warm, and neither was he. It struck him then, that when it's like this – when she's not there, it's still her side of the bed. On the days that she isn't here (and those were getting rarer already), it's still her side of the bed. That clinches it. Decision made.

Oh, tear ducts and rust  
I'll fix it for us  
We're collecting dust  
But our love's enough  
You're holding it in  
You're pouring a drink  
No nothing is as bad as it seems  
We'll come clean

He followed his heart, and since that means _her_, he followed her out there. Sitting on an arm chair that she somehow managed to pull up to the window overlooking the city (just as he imagined) without waking anybody up, she sat with her knees bent, legs pulled up to her chest, but not tightly. Not defensively. Comfortable. Cozy. At home. In his home. Absurdly, at even more absurd o'clock he was struck by the thought of how beautiful she made his house look.

Briefly, he contemplated still, whether he ought to leave her alone or approach her. A bomb? Livewire? Who knows? He wondered if she was crying silently, the way she does. When she can help it, she's strong even in her weaknesses and sometimes that kills him, because he likes to be her strength too. Over the months, she had let him be that. In fact, she had let him be her pillar of strength when he was subtle enough to not seem like he was her pillar. But he was. He always stood by her, and he always would. He knew that for sure. In fact he was more sure of this, than he was of the fact that this entire thing, her existence, his life with her in it, may be some well elaborated hoax by his comatose brain (or the matrix, or something equally cool).

But she tucked her hair behind her ear with her hand, while staring at the glass of water in her other hand. It was nearly full. His now definitely overworked brain was thankful about that because it was much too late, or too early for the next day?, by then to think philosophically over a potentially half full of half empty glass.

His feet had brought him closer of their own accord. He hadn't even noticed when they started moving.

But he stood closer, still out of her field of vision. It was then that he noticed through the reflection in his dark window, that she wasn't staring at the glass. She was staring at the hand holding it. She was staring at the hand that he had held earlier in the day, when he slipped the ring on it. She was staring at it, and with her other hand, she caressed it like it was something precious. No, not like. It was. It was something precious to them.

Just give me a reason  
Just a little bit's enough  
Just a second we're not broken just bent  
And we can learn to love again  
It's in the stars  
It's been written in the scars on our hearts  
That we're not broken just bent  
And we can learn to love again

She turned just the slightest bit, and he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been perfectly still himself. But she turned the slighted bit towards him, and in the reflection, again, he saw that she was still staring intently at the ring, but this time with a small smile gracing her face. Not shy, not embarrassed, just knowing. She knew he was there, and that was reason enough. She didn't call out to him, and that was reason enough too. Because she knew that he would find her, and go to her when he was ready. When he thought she was ready. She trusted him with judging her correctly, and that – that was reason enough for him.

Again his feet propelled him forwards until he sat on the arm of the arm chair, by her. She looked up at his reflection, and he looked back at hers; both smiling, both comfortable, and both definitely in love. He wound his arm from around her back, and intertwined their hands to hold against heart. It was right over the place where she had been shot. And in the reflection, they saw the diamond catch the moonlight and shine in all its glory. The terrorizing memory of an evil glint of light, forever and always replaced by the sacred sparkle of promises kept, and promises made.


End file.
